"Cum in," cried Ada. "Mum won't eat yer."

Mrs Yabsley, who was ironing among a pile of shirts and collars,
looked up, with the iron in her hand.

"W'y, Joe, ye're quite a stranger!" she cried. "Sit down an' make yerself
at 'ome."

"'Ow do, missus?" said Jonah, looking round nervously for the child,
but it was not visible.

"I knowed yer wouldn't let them take the old woman's fowls," she
continued. "'Ere, Ada, go an' git a jug o' beer."

The room, which served for a laundry, was dimly lit with a candle.
The pile of white linen brought into relief the dirt and poverty of the
interior. The walls were stained with grease and patches of dirt, added
slowly through the years as a face gathers wrinkles. But Jonah saw
nothing of this. He was used to dirt.

He sat down, and, with a sudden attack of politeness, decided to take off
his hat, but, uncertain of his footing, pushed it on the back of his head
as a compromise. He lit a cigarette, and felt more at ease.

A faint odour of scorching reached his nostrils as Mrs Yabsley passed
the hot iron over the white fronts. The small black iron ran swiftly
over the clean surface, leaving a smooth, shining track behind it. And
he watched, with an idler's pleasure, the swift, mechanical movements.

When the beer came, Jonah gallantly offered it to Mrs Yabsley, whose face